


Lessons in Waking Up

by dogeared, Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s04e04 Doppelganger, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-02
Updated: 2007-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keller crashes first, hiding a yawn behind one hand while she makes her excuses about early morning clinics and paperwork and half-jokes about not even being able to read her own handwriting. Sam's not far behind her; then Teyla, trailing Ronon in her wake, looking for peace through meditation, though John knows the only thing she's likely to find is irritation with Ronon's snoring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons in Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> Episode coda for 4.04, Doppelganger.

Keller crashes first, hiding a yawn behind one hand while she makes her excuses about early morning clinics and paperwork and half-jokes about not even being able to read her own handwriting. Sam's not far behind her; then Teyla, trailing Ronon in her wake, looking for peace through meditation, though John knows the only thing she's likely to find is irritation with Ronon's snoring.

And then it's quiet, and John runs a hand over his face, trying not to feel the exhaustion that's invading the grey spaces at his mind's edge; he knows that technically it hasn't been that long since he was asleep, not that long since he was lying on a gurney in the isolation room, heart beating fit to burst out of his chest, pulse so rapid he was surprised Keller didn't pick up on it; knows that there's no danger in letting sleep claim him, now; knows that every bad thought he's ever had, every consequence he's narrowly avoided, isn't necessarily waiting to ambush him inside the confines of his own head.

He sighs and opens his eyes and thinks about getting another cup of coffee. The sunrise is pretty on the east pier; maybe he'll head over, catch that. He hears Rodney scraping back his chair to stand; looks up and sees Rodney smiling at him, hands jammed into his pockets, tiredness and relief caught in the lines around his eyes, the curve of his mouth; some part of John's mind recognizes how goddamned exhausted he must be, because the world wavers around him and his breath catches and John wants to reach out and _touch_—brush Rodney's lip with his thumb, feel how warm the back of Rodney's neck would be underneath his collar...

Rodney says "Come on, Sheppard, time for all good little colonels to go to bed," jerking one thumb over his shoulder, sounding fond and exasperated and wrung out; John blinks, bleary-eyed, and wonders what it would be like if he captured that still-moving hand in his, what it would be like to feel that potential for motion within his grip; how it would feel for his mouth to finally shape the words "Come to bed with me, Rodney."

And maybe it's just because he's so tired, maybe it's because he can hardly keep his eyes open but can't let himself sleep that he's thinking this—chasing bad memories away with the thoughts of how good it would feel to press up against Rodney's solid back and rest there, connected, _safe_. To let Rodney hold him up while he strips off clothes that are soiled with fear-sweat and the sour, animal reek of grief; to close his eyes and breathe out, out—because it could be so easy with Rodney, so easy if they'd both just let it. If he could have Rodney's big hands on him, playing him like he wrote the score himself, the thrill John always gets when they're on the same wavelength magnified tenfold, a hundredfold.

Rodney must see something in the way John's sitting, the way he's holding himself, because he stops talking about how he has to be up early tomorrow morning—well, ha, this morning—to help Zelenka recalibrate the jumpers; because he stops and stills and says "Sheppard?" His voice is more than a little confused, but John can tell there's more than a little hope there, too.

God, yes, _yes_—John looks straight at Rodney, lets the spark he feels thrumming between them show on his face, says, "Yeah, _Rod_ney," and he means, "You and me, buddy"; he means, "I want this, so much."

And maybe it's a bad sign that Rodney makes no answer to that, that his mouth falls open into a silent little 'o'—but he doesn't move when John stands up, and his eyes track John as he moves around the table; John finds that the fabric of Rodney's jacket is warm underneath the scarred palms of his hands.

It's even warmer when he gets a hand between the jacket and Rodney's t-shirt (feels the curve of Rodney's torso through the cotton), when Rodney's hands pause and hover over his shoulders before settling, heavy and sure.

He's warm enough to make John shiver—because it's been a long day and a longer night, spent surrounded by the leaching cold of loss, Kate's name joining Elizabeth's in the list of people John couldn't save; the raw and ferocious fury of Rodney's mind, the rain that had soaked John to the bone, matted his hair to his head and numbed his fingers (not real, not real), a chill so deep he can feel it tingling in his fingertips even now; the constant urge to tuck his fingers in the thick black cloth of his pullover. John shivers; but it's almost dawn, and they're safe, his team is safe, and Rodney almost _died_, but he's alive and solid and _here_, an anchor in the void, something John can hold on to— So he does, just for a minute or two, shuffles his boot between Rodney's and slides his hands over soft t-shirt to the small of Rodney's back, leans into him and trusts that Rodney has him.

"Um, well, okay?" he can hear Rodney mumble against his cheek, "If we're doing this now, I can—it's just that the mess isn't—okay, okay—" and his arms come up to wrap around John tight. John's surrounded by the smell of fresh cotton, the bright ozone smell of Rodney's skin; he closes his eyes and breathes in deep and doesn't shake at the way Rodney strokes one big hand the length of his spine, over and over.

The inside of John's right knee is pressed to Rodney's, and it just makes him want to get closer, _closer_; makes him want to lick the skin behind Rodney's knee, the hollow of his hip, find the real, earthy taste of him, trace the firm line of bone under the skin, the twitch and pull of muscle.

He surges against Rodney, hard enough that Rodney takes a stumbling step back but doesn't let go, doesn't let go. John opens his eyes and finds that Rodney's breathing hard, watching him with eyes that are wide and tired and worried and so full of— "Jesus, Rodney," John breathes, because he doesn't think there's any way back from this, thinks that maybe there hasn't been for a long time, since long before today, when Rodney pushed past the very last of his defenses and saw inside him. He cups Rodney's face in one hand, feels the scratch and slide of stubble, and leans in.

Rodney meets him halfway, mouth already open, and this is just how it's supposed to be: Rodney's hot mouth like the center of the universe, lips speeding up and slowing down, hyperspace and time dilation fields and John's heart pounding like he's run for miles—except that he's standing still, standing right here, giving himself over.

Everywhere Rodney's hands touch him is adrenaline sparking, feeling rushing back, pins-and-needles like he's finally standing strong on his own two feet again. "Please, Rodney," he mumbles against Rodney's mouth, "please, please—" and he hardly knows what he's asking.

And then they're not kissing anymore, but Rodney's fingers are braceleting John's wrist, mooring him, and Rodney's saying, "Yes, okay, okay," saying, "Come on, let's go to, um, to your room?"

Rodney's hands stay on him, one bright, solid point of contact as they move through the city; the halls and corridors dim and subdued, the city silent in sleep and mourning, but there, a resurging thrum of life that John can feel mirrored in his footsteps, in the very beat of his blood. He's glad they don't meet anyone on the way from the mess to his quarters, because he has to fight to do nothing more than stroke his thumb against the fine skin of Rodney's palm, the cuff of his jacket; and as soon as they're through the door of his room, he has Rodney pinned against the wall and he's panting.

"No, no, come on, bed, before you fall over," Rodney says against his mouth, hot breath gusting over his cheek, and yes, that's what John wants, soft mattress under him and soft-and-hard Rodney heavy on top of him—he licks under Rodney's jaw once (feels a shudder and isn't sure whose it is), says, "Okay," lets Rodney hustle him to the bed.

He's still shuddering when he falls back, wondering that Rodney can reduce him to this—shaking and shaky and wanting, _needing_, reaching out to touch and hold close—wondering that it's taken him so long to give in and let himself (don't be afraid, don't be afraid)—and he's pressing kisses to every bare inch of Rodney's skin while he tries to wriggle out of his clothes, shed his skin.

Rodney's steadying him, saying, "I'm here, I'm here, not going anywhere, I wouldn't have, you always bring me back—" Saying, "John," when John kisses his cheek, his throat, saying, "Oh, god," when John slides hands up under Rodney's clothes and pulls him closer, closer, closer, pressed shirt to skin, and the rhythm of his words, of his touch, eases an ache somewhere deep in John.

Tightness uncoils in his stomach, unspools along the length of his spine, leaving only liquid warmth in its wake. Rodney's mouth is warm against his, insistent, and John presses closer, feeling something shift and bloom beneath his skin, something bright and celestial as the birth of stars; and when Rodney pushes one hand into his boxers, palms his cock, John has to choke back a sob.

He can't quite fathom how it's so hot and _comforting_ at the same time, this simple pleasure, the feel of Rodney's hand against his skin; but then Rodney whispers "I have you," and John thinks maybe he might have an idea, a hope, and he gasps and pushes his whole body upwards against Rodney's. And Rodney pushes him right back, urges him through it, coaxes him on; saying _yes_ and _that's right_ and _John, John_, words whispered hoarse and confidential into John's ear. Rodney's wrist _twists_ and one of his legs presses between John's thighs, a heavy, welcome weight, and John can't remember when he ever felt this free of shame, this openly wanting, not once, not ever.

John hears himself saying, "Rodney, come on, I want you, I want you to— " To come with me, to be _here_ with me, he thinks, and he's desperate for more of Rodney's skin; his hands slide up Rodney's belly, his chest, the curve of his shoulder, and Rodney drops his head, groaning softly like something's coming apart right there inside him.

He shivers, and Rodney twists his wrist again, twice, three times, and John can't see, can't hear for the pleasure that's rising through his spine and splaying his limbs apart. He bucks and cries out hoarsely, coming everywhere—his belly, Rodney's hands, the cuff of Rodney's jacket, and it's good, so fucking good, it's _Rodney_—it's Rodney shuddering now and coming on top of John; it's Rodney, kissing him and kissing him and not turning his face away, though he's walked through all the cold-glass places of John's mind; it's Rodney holding him and saying _John_, wrapping his arms around him, a solid strength that lulls them, pulls them both down into sleep. John goes willingly, quietly, and when he dreams, he smiles.


End file.
